10SNE1

Tennis is my game of choice. It should not be construed that I like the game. I actually think it sucks. That's because I suck at tennis. I only play because playing tennis gives me a workout and I'm even worse at other sports.

I've tried them all. Baseball for instance. Have you tried to hit an eighty mile per hour fastball with a thin wooden stick? I have. If I accidentally hit the ball, my hands sting for hours. I run like I'm wearing a full diaper and it's impossible for me to track and catch a ball heading straight at me. When I finally track the ball down, I throw it back like I'm left handed in both arms. I quit when nobody wanted me on their team. No problem, it's seasonal and I didn't get much of a workout.

Basketball, soccer, football, my skills weren't up to the game's requirements. Even racquetball. TaIk about a workout. I never hit the ball even once and I still hurt like hell the next day.

And then there's golf. I just can't hit that damn small ball with that impossibly long club, even though the ball isn't moving. And, if I do manage to hit the damn ball, I spend the next ten minutes looking for it. It's frustrating for me and the others I'm playing with. I can see the frustration on their faces while they wait for me. Finally, after hitting the ball a dozen times, I'm expected to get the ball in a ridiculously small, five inch hole. Talk about stupid. In addition, it's played outdoors with hot sun, wind, rain and cold that limits my ability to play to approximately nine months a year. Even then, I don't get much of a workout, riding in carts instead of walking. Actually, driving the golf cart was only part of the game I actually enjoyed. I think the game could be improved if they'd just fill in the hole and put scoring rings around the flag like darts.

Speaking about darts, I tried that too. No workout at all other than staggering home half lit at closing time. Unfortunately, I put more darts in the wall than the dart board and the proprietor of the pub had to move some of the tables further away from the dartboard for safety reasons.

So, I play tennis. Even though the ball is moving, the racket is large. If I just manage to get it up, there's a fair chance that the ball will hit it. Early on, I perfected two shots that dominate my game, into the net and over the fence. So, I play exclusively indoors. Chasing balls that don't leave the court saves time.

Tennis is also an ego sport. There are the uniforms. Guaranteed to attract attention by members of the opposite sex even before you make your first serve. I watch with envy as the men players stretch their bodies into an overhand serve to maximum attention and I ogle the women who have perfected their skirt flip when they serve. My service isn't that memorable. I serve my second service, and there's always a second service, underhanded because my first service is unpredictable, landing everywhere except diagonally opposite the service box without being stopped by the net. And, in tennis, winning is everything. Egos are satisfied by a win, even a walkover win and I'm a walkover win. I've spent time playing in the warm up area with a wall instead of a net or an opponent. Even the wall wins.

I usually don't have a problem finding an opponent. I'm an ego reinforcer.

I work a strange shift at the office. The management maintains a staggered starting time to reduce the traffic congestion in the parking lots at starting and quitting times. I'm on a six am to three pm shift. Five days a week, I get to the Athletic and Tennis Club by three-thirty or four. Attendance at the club seems to be in two distinct shifts. There's the day shift, mostly composed of women, a pause during the dinner hour and an evening session, mostly men and couples playing mixed doubles. I get there near the end of the day shift and don't usually have a problem finding an opponent. It's usually a woman.

Over the months, I have a perfected a third shot. Somehow, while running from side to side on the court to track down return shots, I manage to get the racket in the way of the ball. The result is the ball returns on approximately the same trajectory as it arrived on.

My opponents love it. It means they can remain relatively stationary while their last shot returns to them and then they can direct their next shot to the opposite side of the court causing me to reverse direction and scramble to get the racket in the way of the ball again. I work up a considerable sweat and they work up their egos.

On this particular Tuesday, I was late leaving work due to an expedited project deadline and didn't get to the club until almost five during the slow period between day and evening sessions. I had changed into tennis clothes in my apartment and carried only a small athletic bag with a change of clothes for after the game. Opponents were scarce. I was playing in the warm up area and was losing to the wall two games to zero when a woman's voice from the second floor overlook said, "Looking for a partner?"

I looked up. The voice was from a woman I'd never seen before. She had short blonde hair and was dressed to play. "Sure," I responded.

"Court three," she said and disappeared.

By the time I got to court three, she was already there. She introduced herself as "Jane."

In addition to short blonde hair, Jane was about five foot four, had a pretty face with a cute nose and perfect lips. I guessed her age at early thirties. Her outfit nicely displayed her body with appropriately sized breasts and her long legs were toned where they extended from under her short tennis skirt to her half socks and tennis shoes.

"Daren," I told her. "Nice to meet you."

Jane ran me around the court for forty-five minutes. Three sets and four miles later, I sat on a nearby bench, sweaty and exhausted. Jane stood in front of me with her foot on the bench while I recovered. The view of her bright red panties didn't speed my recovery.

I picked up my gym bag and we walked together toward the locker area. My intention was to shower, change clothes and head back to my apartment. We passed the men's locker room first. There was a disturbing sign on the door to the locker room. "Room closed. Facilities under repair."

"Shit," I said. I tried the door. It was locked. "Damn. I guess I'll have to drive home sweaty."

"Why?" asked Jane. "You can use the showers in the ladies' locker room."

"You're kidding, right?" I asked. There's no way I'm going to shower with a bunch of women and I seriously doubt that they would be in favor of it either."

"There's almost nobody here right now," insisted Jane. "You'll be alone. I'll stand guard for you so nobody wanders in."

"That's not going to work," I insisted.

"Of course it is," she said. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the women's locker room.

Jane went in first while I waited. "It's clear. Nobody's in there. You can shower in private," she informed me.

She dragged me inside. I didn't know what to expect. The place was hauntingly quiet and humid. There were several rows of lockers with benches in front of them, exactly like the men's locker room. Jane led me to a row of lockers and benches closest to the showers and left me there. "Trust me," she said and promised to remain near the door to insure my privacy.

I agreed to her proposal reluctantly. I rationalized that if I took a really quick shower my exposure would be minimized. I unpacked my clothes and laid them out on the bench for a quick redress after my shower. I stripped down to my Fruit of the Looms, picked up towel, wash cloth and body wash and headed for the shower room.

The shower room was an exact duplicate of the men's shower room, eight shower heads on opposite sides of a narrow room with drains under each of them. I had expected something different in the women's shower room, possibility individual showers with privacy walls between them and maybe even doors.

I walked to the furthest shower from the door, hung my towel on a nearby hook and turned the shower on. When it was hot, I turned my back to the door, quickly stripped off my briefs and started to soap up my washcloth. I was bent over washing my legs and feet when the shower next to me started.

Paralyzed, I tried to remain calm. A voice behind me said, "Don't worry. It's only me."

It was Jane's voice. "I thought you were going to stand guard for me?" I asked.

"There's no one to keep guard against," she answered. "And, it's polite to look at someone when you talk to them."

I turned around slowly, the soapy cloth in my hands protecting my genitals from being seen.

"That's better," commented Jane. She was facing me, full Monty naked. Her breasts were as nice as I imagined only better, about the size of tennis balls with almost invisible erect nipples. The rest of her was ideally proportioned with a thin waist, slender hips and a triangle of dense, neatly trimmed blonde pubic hair.

Jane watched my eyes wander up and down her body and laughed. "I appreciate your interest in my body," she said. "Now it's your turn."

I knew what she meant but I hesitated anyway. Then I had a disturbing thought. "If she wants nudity then I'll give her nudity." The problem was that I wasn't just nude, I was erect. "Fuck it," I thought. I let my hands fall to my sides.

"You missed a spot," she said. "Give me that washcloth."

I gave it to her and watched her eyes fixate on my happily erect penis. She took the washcloth. "Turn around," she said.

I turned around and she began to wash my back. She was so close I could feel the heat of her body near mine and the warmth of her breath on my shoulders. She washed down my back, over my cheeks and down both legs. She stood up and began to add more body wash to the washcloth. "Turn around," she ordered.

I turned around, my erection lagging behind slightly and waving in the humid air as I stopped facing her. She washed my shoulders, chest and abdomen. She washed my erection with the washcloth. She lingered, holding my erection in her hand, dropped the washcloth and continued to hold me in her bare hands. She let the shower rinse my erection and stroked it suggestively as if she was thinking about something.

Suddenly, she turned around and bent over with one hand against the wall. She guided my erection toward her center with her other hand. "Fuck me," she said softly.

"I'd done everything else she'd asked me to do so, why not?" I thought. I moved forward and she let go of my erection. My hand replaced hers and I moved further until my erection touched her labia from behind. I rubbed the head of my cock back and forth between her labia for lubrication and pushed further. My glans slipped inside her. She pushed back and I slid further inside her. I pushed again and slid all the way inside her. My hips were tight against her ass.

"Don't move," Jane ordered.

I didn't move. I let the heat of her body soak into my erection and spread across my loins. When she moved I moved with her. Seconds later, I was stroking slowly inside her.

"Faster," she whispered.

I accommodated her. I grabbed her hips, closed my eyes and moved faster, pushing each stroke to its limit inside her. We both were drifting in the flow of our bodies and emotions, moving inexorably toward the orgasms we both knew were waiting for us.

Only one thing interrupted our intoxication.

Another shower started. I paused, opened my eyes and looked up. A naked woman, with her hand over her mouth, was staring at us. She appeared to be in her forties and had a tennis toned body with full breasts and unruly triangle of pubic hair. I watched her watching us. She stood there as if paralyzed, not turning away or attempting to cover herself in any way. Then her body posture changed slightly, almost as if she was posing for me. She dropped her hand and smiled. I have no idea why I did what I did next. I blew her a kiss. Her smile broadened, she turned and left the room.

"What was that all about?" asked Jane.

"Nothing to worry about," I calmed her. "Just another woman. She's gone now."

"Then get back to business before I scream with frustration," Jane ordered.

I got back to business with renewed vigor possibly influenced by the naked woman who had been watching us. Three minutes later, Jane stiffened with an overpowering orgasm. I quickly followed with an unconscious and irresponsible orgasm of my own inside her.

Jane recovered quickly. She rinsed off, kissed me and left the room. I finished washing, rinsed and turned off both showers. I dried most of my body, put on my briefs, collected my stuff, turned off the third shower and left the shower room.

My belongings were just where I left them, laid out on the bench for a rapid dressing. I no longer felt rushed. Somehow, after having sex with a witness, I didn't feel that there was much more to protect. I might have even welcomed encountering another woman in the women's locker room.

It didn't happen. I finished drying, got dressed, packed my gym bag and headed for the door looking down each aisle for Jane or the naked women. Jane was nowhere to be found. She wasn't waiting outside the locker room either. However, another woman was. She looked familiar. Then I recognized her. She was the other woman in the shower room. The naked woman who watched me fuck Jane. She stood up as I approached her.

"Can we talk?" she asked as I approached.

That phrase spoken by a woman to a man usually makes the man uneasy. However, this time the circumstances were different. We had each other at a disadvantage. Unexpected sex and nakedness can have that consequence.

"Sure," I said.

Her name was Angie and she led me to a pub a half block away from the Athletic Club. We found a table and ordered drinks. By the time the drinks arrived, we were almost friends, talking about almost everything except what was on our minds.

"You know," I joked. "I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

Angie laughed, almost loud enough to draw attention from the other patrons of the pub. "I can top that statement," she responded.

I laughed. "Is that why we're here?" I asked.

"I have no idea why we're here," Angie said. "Something told me to track you down and talk with you. It also told me to explain what happened in the shower."

I nodded as if an explanation was necessary.

"Actually," continued Angie. "I'm embarrassed to tell you this but I feel compelled to explain to you. When I went into the shower room in the women's locker room, I heard the shower running but I expected it was just another woman. I turned on my shower and looked up. I was shocked that a man was in the shower but, even more, he was having sex with a woman. I should have reacted, instantly covered myself and run from the room. But something powerful, that I can't explain, took me over.

"I was fascinated watching you have sex with that woman. Fascinated isn't the right word, not strong enough. I was mesmerized, even aroused watching you. And you were watching me, totally naked and facing you. Something snapped. It wasn't that I just didn't cover up, I wanted you to see me. I wanted to move closer to you. I wanted to touch you and have you touch me.

"The spell broke when you blew me a kiss. I knew I could just wait for you."

"That's why you were sitting outside the locker room when I came out," I concluded.

"It was," Angie confirmed. "But there's more." She took a deep breath and continued. "Damn, this is embarrassing. I want to be naked with you again. I want to touch you and I want you to touch me. I want what that woman had. I want you to fuck me. There, I said it."

"Angie," I said. "I'm honored by your confession. No one has ever said anything near to that to me."

"I've never said anything like that to anyone either," Angie admitted.

I reached out and put my right hand on top of her left hand on the table. "As much as I like to sweep you off you feet, carry you up to my apartment and give you everything you want, there's still one thing I don't understand."

"What's that?" asked Angie.

I tapped my finger on the ring on the third finger of her left hand.

"Oh, that," she said. "Yes, I'm married."

"And your husband doesn't have a problem with what you're proposing?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Angie admitted. "The question has never come up. It's a minor problem."

"Angie," I said. "As much as I'd like have sex with a woman as beautiful and willing as you are, I can't put myself, or you, in a situation as uncomfortable, and possibility as dangerous, that your husband might create."

"Oh, Peter isn't dangerous. He's a wuss. I could tell him I was fucking someone and he'd tell me to have a good time," Angie revealed.

"I don't want to imply anything," I said. "But that's hard to believe."

"Peter and I settled it fifteen years ago, the evening we were married," Angie explained.

I said nothing, waiting for more information. Angie continued, "I caught him and one of the bridesmaids in the coat room of the reception venue. Peter's tux pants were around his ankles and my former friend was on her knees sucking on his erection."

"Damn," I whispered.

"It wasn't pretty," said Angie. "I was furious. I threatened to walk out and file for an annulment the next day. They were both upset and apologetic. They swore it would never happen again. I told my former friend to make some excuse and leave immediately. I didn't care what she told everybody but I never wanted to see her again. I never have.

"Then I went to town on Peter. I made him swear never to even look sideways at another woman and I told him never to question what I was doing, day, night, weekends or ever. He begged me to stay married, and swore he'd never stray or complain if I did. Honestly, it's been a strange marriage. Obviously, we've never had children. We have sex weekly, on Saturday night. It's the least I can do for him and I've never strayed from our marriage vows. Peter doesn't know that. He never will. I go out with my girlfriends, we drink and dance with other men but that's all. I just tell him when I won't be home and he tells me to have a good time."

"Damn," I repeated. "That's quite a story," I related. "And these other men you dance with?" I asked.

"Maybe they squeeze my ass or tits, but never anything more. We just leave if the situation looks like it might get out of hand." She smiled as she said it.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Shoot."

"Why do you stay? There doesn't seem much there for you," I asked.

"Peter has more money than Croesus," explained Angie. "He owns four businesses and I live very well on his money."

"He doesn't seem like the type of guy that could run four businesses," I stated.

"Oh, he doesn't run them. He owns them. He hires talented people to run them for him," said Angie.

I thought about what Angie had told me. She was married but not in the usual sense of marriage. It seemed that accepting her offer had little risk and high reward. I squeezed her hand. "Angie," I said. "At the risk of being cheeky, I'd love to get in your pants."

Angie laughed. "I love cheeky," she admitted. "And confidentially, my panties are soaked with the prospect of you being in them. How far is your apartment?"

I threw a Jackson on the table for the drinks and we headed for my car. I held the door for Angie and she slid in deftly. "Thank you sir," she quipped.

I drove the short distance to my apartment. Angie sat in the seat next to me with her already short skirt higher up on her thighs than I thought necessary. I have to admit that it had the desired effect. I had no idea how long it would take us to take our clothes off but, no matter how short, I'd be ready.

I refer to my place as an apartment but it's actually a townhouse with a garage and store room on the ground floor, living, dining and kitchen on the second level and bedrooms on the third level. I parked in the driveway and hurried around to open the passenger door for Angie. I helped her out of the car.